


The Ecstasy of Bursting Forth

by Ennorwen



Category: Mad Men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-12
Updated: 2008-12-12
Packaged: 2018-01-25 08:16:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1640945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ennorwen/pseuds/Ennorwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feeling rather distant of late, Joan Holloway accepts an invitation to go out with her co-workers which serves as a catalyst to awaken her from her detachment and to make a few life decisions of her own.  Takes place just post Season Two - one or two days after the end of Episode 213.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Ecstasy of Bursting Forth

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Yuletide, delgaserasca! I hope you enjoy your story as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for being so generous in your prompt and for your Dear Yuletide Santa letter, which provided such abundant information with which to work. I'd also like to thank and acknowledge my husband, "Becketeer," who beta'd this story. He relished wielding that red pen and made it invaluably better. The title of the story is paraphrased from the poem, Meditations in an Emergency by Frank O'Hara, the book that figured so prominently in Season Two.
> 
> Written for delgaserasca

 

 

Reluctantly leaving the comforting haze of sleep, Joan Holloway reaches for the alarm clock and slaps at the switch to turn it off. She lets out a puff of breath and lies back, eyes still closed. She rests for a while, relishing the twilight between sleep and wakefulness. Sleep? Did she? She remembers tossing and turning and as if to mock her, feels the sheet tangled about her legs. She kicks desultorily to unwind herself. 

"It's late, are you getting up? Joan?" Carol's voice beckons from beyond the bedroom door. 

She clears her throat and finds her voice. "Yes, I'm awake," Joan answers weakly. She draws herself up until she's sitting, threads her arms through the robe, and points her toes into the slippers at the side of the bed.

She pads to the bathroom and looks into the mirror, pushing the hair from the side of her face. Puffy, blood-shot eyes and a sallow complexion meet her gaze. She only looks for a moment and then turns her head. 

By rote, she reaches for the shower cap, snugs it around her face, turns on the shower and steps in. Feels good, the warmth does, and for a few blissful minutes she revels in it and the white noise that drowns out her own thoughts. She's done all too soon and steps out, shivering, exposed.

Finished in the bathroom she walks to her closet, towel wrapped tightly around her body. She reaches for the blue dress with the white buttons. No. The red. No. The green. Shit. She closes her eyes and grabs the first that her hand touches. It's the blue with white buttons and she shakes her head, allowing a small ironic smile to cross her lips. 

She dresses, pulling the girdle up her thighs in the perpetual twist and grind, rolls her stockings up her legs, dons the blue dress. Walks to the bathroom to finish. Drags a brush through her hair and puts it up. Paints her face, stretching her cheeks to accommodate the pull of the eyeliner, the brush of mascara. Spreads on the rouge. She sucks in a deep breath and reassesses. That's better, she thinks - hopes - and pastes on the Mona Lisa smile.

She reaches for the Shalimar and untwists the cap, tipping the bottle to release the few drops that will encircle her neck and her wrists. It slips from her fingers, and her eyes watch it drop, oh so slowly it seems, tipping end over end until it smashes against the side of the sink and shatters.

"Damn it," she utters as she grasps for the shards, looks down at her dress, spotted and reeking. 

"Damn it. Damn it. Damn it." She pulls her finger quickly to her mouth, sucking the blood where a sliver of glass has embedded itself.

She changes into the green dress and walks into the kitchen.

Carol meets her with an all too perky smile and a steaming mug of freshly poured coffee. Joan cups it in her hands and lets the warmth radiate for a moment.

"I thought you'd be at Greg's," says Carol, looking past Joan's left shoulder to her bedroom. "Or is he here?"

"No, he's not here," answers Joan, tight-lipped. She closes her eyes. Doesn't want to get into it right now. Doesn't really want to think about it at all. "He was working last night."

"You'll probably see him tonight. He isn't on call, right?"

"Hm, yeah, probably," answers Joan, the small early-morning headache turning acute. "I'd better get going." She reaches for the Bayer along with her coat and slips the two white pills into her mouth as she leaves.

The din at Sterling Cooper is the same as yesterday. The monotonous buzz of Cronkite on the TV, something about this conference or that phone call or ships just south of Florida. She walks past a group of the girls hovering around. She'll break it up as soon as she's gotten her cup of coffee.

She collects Don's mail and slips into the desk just outside of his door, skimming off the Selectric's cover, folding and neatly placing it in the drawer. Sees that Peggy is in her office, new nameplate on the door, and smiles a little. That one's got moxie, that's for sure. She thinks she rather likes that. Caught Peggy smoking in her office last night, too. Caught. Like it's a crime. Peggy is more than she looks, thinks Joan, and shakes her head at the difference between the little mouse that was Peggy just a short time ago and the tigress she's becoming.

She knows all too well that still waters run deep.

The gaggle of secretaries grows larger and Joan sighs, getting up from the chair and making her way over to them. As she passes Roger's office, she notes Jane's empty desk. She scans the room and sees the little chippy isn't at work yet. A momentary pang hits her, but she swallows it down. Wonders how on earth she's going to be able to manage that girl now and works up a little righteous anger. When she reaches the gibbering group, she's a little shrill.

"Ladies, don't you have work to do?"

They break up and scurry to their desks, the mere look of the arch of her eyebrow and the tone of her voice brooking no argument.

As she heads to the break room she notes that the four musketeers have gathered there, whispering. She bulls her way through them, and makes her way to the coffee machine.

"So Joan," asks Harry, "What can you tell us about this deal with Putnam, Powell and Lowe?"

"Come on Joan, give," says Paul, ever-present pipe held between his teeth. His eyes are too knowing and for just a moment Joan hates him, hates herself for ever having anything to do with the smarmy git.

"Why, I don't know a thing," she answers, chirpily. And then she realizes she doesn't. Really. She turns so that the boys don't see the look of puzzlement that crosses her face. Since when doesn't she know what's going on around here? She mentally kicks herself, trying to get back in the game, trying to _care._ Trying to care either that Sterling Cooper is changing or even to care that she doesn't know that much about it.

"What do you mean, you don't know?" goads Ken.

"Even Lois could tell us something," parries Sal.

"Yeah, that's who told us there was a deal," says Harry, "Do you think it means that we'll get pink slips?"

"I suppose that could happen," she answers, pasting on a cryptic smile. Even if she doesn't know, she should pretend that she does. "If you're worried, I'd suggest you at least _look_ like you're busy."

She sashays through them and as usual all eyes watch her leave, following her swaying hips. She really doesn't have it in her right now so she slightly exaggerates the walk not wanting to disappoint them.

She slides into her chair with a sigh, looking up just in time to see Don stride in, hat in hand. He offers her a perfunctory "Good Morning, Joan," as he enters his office and closes the door. In a few minutes she will deliver his coffee and receive her marching orders for the day. She feels tired already.

She answers the phone when it rings, "Mr. Draper's office," and the call isn't for him but for her. Greg. She closes her eyes and her stomach churns as she tells him "Yes, I'll see you tonight." 

And then, "No. It's not necessary to come to the office, Greg. I'll meet you there. Yes, at seven." She gulps as she hangs up and resists the urge to look back into Don's office. She doesn't want to see him here. Not here. Never again here.

Lunchtime and she can't summon up the gumption to go out. She sits in the break room, holding a newspaper she isn't reading as she bites at an apple. Employees come and go, barely acknowledging her. She's glad.

Later, when Don asks her to deliver a report to Mr. Cooper's office, she tiptoes in, having slipped off her shoes before she walked into his office. She stares at the Roethke, cocks her head this way and that, tries to see what they're all talking about. The gradations are intriguing she supposes. She steps forward, again bending her head. But still she sees _nothing._ It should just be gray, she thinks, a mass of shades of gray. 

"Should be gray," she says. 

"What was that?" asks Bert, distractedly taking the report from her hand.

"Oh," she recovers, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean..."

"You said it should be gray. Don't you like it?"

She wrinkles her nose a bit, and bites her lip.

"It's alright," she answers, "They say that it's worth a lot of money."

"Well, I don't like it," answers Bert, "and it is. And," he adds, leaning over the desk and giving her a conspiratorial smile and a wink, "it's going to be worth a lot more."

She smiles and nods, and walks out the door, picks up her shoes and bends down to put them back on.

The afternoon goes slowly, the din of the office rising in waves and then ebbing. Pete is being his usual supercilious self, oozing into Don's office then out again and looks longingly - _longingly_? - at Peggy's door. Hmm, Pete? And _Peggy?_ She shakes herself out of what surely must be an hallucination.

Later she hears the boys' raucous laughter as they gather in Ken's office. She passes by and sees that Peggy is there and assumes it must be a copywriter/creative meeting and reaches out to close the door.

"Oh no, come in," beckons Peggy. "Kurt was just telling us about some place down in the Village."

"Some kind of beatnik bar," adds Harry.

"The San Remo on MacDougall Street," interjects Kurt. 

"I heard that it was all mobbed up," says Harry.

"Aren't they all?" Kurt shrugs.

"You sure it isn't more than some sort of beatnik place?" asks Ken, giving Sal the eye.

Sal squirms a little uncomfortably, staring at Kurt before Ken's question registers. Changing the subject, he answers, "Sounds like your type of place, Paul."

"Do they read poems there, to bongo drums and all?" asks Paul, nibbling at the end of his pipe.

"That and more," answers Kurt. "The drinks are good and it's dark. You never know what can happen."

"Sounds like good fodder for a story, Ken. You should go," says Harry.

"How about you?" Ken ripostes.

"If I could get away with it, I would. Hmmm. Maybe I could call, say I'm working late. How `bout you Sal, aren't you curious?"

"No," he says, a little too quickly, "but if you're all going..."

"Why not?" says Peggy. "Come on Joan, you come too. It'll be fun and don't you live near there? It's not too far."

Joan doesn't think that it sounds like her cup of tea at all, but all eyes are on her, interested in her response. The temptation to see Peggy, in a _beatnik_ bar edges her toward accepting their invitation. She gives Greg a fleeting thought. She pauses, pursing her tongue between her teeth and then bites her lip. For the first time all day her eyes sparkle, just a little, before the smallest of smiles crosses her lips.

"I'm in," she says.

Peggy notes her change in attitude and smiles contentedly.

"All right then," answers Peggy, "we'll all meet at six, and Kurt'll show us the way."

The next morning, not so reluctantly leaving the comforting haze of sleep, Joan Holloway reaches for the alarm clock and slaps at the switch to turn it off. She lets out a puff of breath and lies back, eyes closed. She rests for a while, relishing the twilight between sleep and wakefulness. Then she smiles. 

Her head is pounding, but she lets out a laugh of pure delight as she recalls the previous night - Peggy a little tipsy and dancing to her own beat. Ken, curious, asking questions of random strangers. Dear Paul - _dear_? - she laughs a little harder, supposedly in his element, but looking uncomfortable and stilted all the while. Harry, looking a little guilty and Sal, wide-eyed. Kurt, slipping off to who knows where.

She makes her way to the bathroom, commences her morning routine. Puffy, blood-shot eyes and a sallow complexion meet her gaze. She chuckles. What do you expect, she asks herself? After a night like that? She finishes her shower and chooses a dress, the red one, decidedly.

She reaches for the Shalimar and remembers that she has none. Okay then, that's decided. She'll go to Menken's at lunch and get a new bottle and have lunch there, at the Tea Room. Another decision, and she doesn't _care_ who's sleeping with whom - she's going to tell Roger that as long as Jane is a secretary at Sterling Cooper, she's going to follow the rules and get to work on time. Hmm, what else?

Oh yes, while she's in Roger's office she'll find out more about the deal with Putnam, Powell and Lowe and then she'll go tell Lois to keep her mouth shut. She'll order business cards for Peggy. She stops for a moment and smiles. And she'll ask Peggy how she can help her in her new position.

She smoothes her dress and walks into the kitchen, taking the hot cup of coffee from Carol's proffered hand. 

"Where were you last night?" Carol asks, "Greg called. Said you were supposed to meet him for dinner."

"Oh," Joan sighs, looking down at her hand, seeing the glint of the diamond on her finger. She rises from the table and goes back into her bedroom. She checks herself in the mirror and takes a deep breath. Sliding the ring off of her finger, she drops it into her jewelry box.

She pours out two Bayer into her hand and pops them in her mouth before she grabs her coat and goes out of the door.

Her brow edges upward. She thinks she might like the Roethke after all. In orange.

END

1

 


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